


Manner of Dress

by aibidil



Series: 'Sup, Broship [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthur Weasley is amused, Athleticwear, Bewitched leggings, Breakdancing, Crack, Dysfunctional leggings, Established Relationship, Fitness gear, Formalwear, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Imperturbable barriers, Joggers, Lucius Malfoy is not amused, M/M, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Opportunistic core work, Public Nudity, Song: Uptown Funk, Tight Pants, Victorian disrobing spells, bros, budgets, iSonorus for all your sound amplification needs, lads, leg day, sir mix-a-lot, wardrobe malfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil
Summary: Cormac wanted his leggings snug. He didn't want themthissnug.





	Manner of Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to frnklymrshnkly for betaing!

Ron stepped through the Floo to find Cormac thrashing on the sofa. Ron stopped, eyes wide, as he watched his lover stop flailing and drape himself into a seductive lounging position on his side.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” Cormac said casually, bending his top knee. Ron noticed that Cormac was wearing a pair of leggings he’d never seen before—they were a flashy neon pink-and-black pattern.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Cormac scoffed, as if Ron were asking a stupid question. 

“Nothing,” Ron repeated, Levitating his bag to the hook on the wall. “Then why were you windmilling about on the sofa when I came through?”

“I wasn’t!” Cormac insisted. “I was just getting myself ready for you, baby,” he added with a jaunty wink, trailing his fingers down his lycra-clad leg.

Ron laughed—Cormac could always make him laugh. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the coffee table, leaning in to press a kiss to Cormac’s lips. “Seriously. Were you trying some sort of weird yoga shit again and falling all over the place?”

Cormac sat up and sighed. “I’m stuck.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Like, existentially?” A few weeks back Cormac had had a fit of doldrums concerning how much more he’d hoped to accomplish by the age of thirty—to rise to CEO of a company, to bake a soufflé, to squat 200kg. Ron didn’t fancy having the discussion again, though he’d done his best to reassure, pointing out some of Cormac’s prouder moments and eating his arse to drive home his point.

“Nah,” Cormac said. “I’m stuck in my leggings.”

“What?” Ron laughed, a grin spreading over his face. “Aren’t they fully elastic?!” The garment appeared to be typical leggings; in Ron’s experience, the only difficulty in removing leggings was in keeping them from turning inside-out (unless he used an Undressing Charm).

“Yeah, but they’re bewitched,” Cormac said, like this was an everyday thing.

Who would bewitch leggings? Unless—“Are they like, anti-rape leggings?”

“What?!” Cormac honked a laugh. “No, nothing like that! Merlin, bro. Way to bring the mood down.”

Ron hadn’t realised the mood had ever been up. “Bewitched how, then?”

Cormac’s eyes lit up—athleticwear was one of his passions. “They’re fucking wicked. They Vanish sweat, they control odour, they stretch but won’t sag, they won’t pill, they have magical space in the crotch for your yin and/or yang—no camel toe or moose knuckles—they have special charms in the knees and ankles to protect your joints, they won’t fall down mid-jump…”

“Fucking hell, Cor, how much did they cost?!” Ron was sore because Cormac kept blowing the “Fitness Paraphernalia” category on their budget. Actually, it was they reason they _had_ a budget. Last month Cormac had spent 500 Galleons on a magical rowing machine (“Wait until you see how jacked I get on full-body, low-impact rowing!”)

Hermione kept telling Ron they weren’t budgeting properly if they blew the category every month. “The budget should reflect the true costs. You need to accept it and budget more.” But they were already budgeting 400 Galleons a month for gear and Ron thought that should be more than enough.

“Don’t worry about that,” Cormac said, waving a hand in a way that indicated that the leggings had cost at least 80 Galleons. “I think there must be something wrong with the charmwork.”

“You literally can’t get them off?” Ron clarified.

“Yeah, look.” Cormac stood and reached for the waistband. But the leggings had sealed onto his midsection and his thumbs couldn’t hook under.

Ron reached forward and tried to bunch the fabric on Cormac’s hips, but it didn’t budge. It was as if the fabric had become a second skin. Ron sat back, assessing. “Are you wearing pants?”

Cormac gave him a look. “You don’t wear pants with SpeedGear ProArmour.”

“Right,” Ron sighed. “Okay, let’s magic them off.” He reached into his sleeve and pulled his wand. “ _Finite._ ” 

Cormac tried to shimmy the leggings down, but they didn’t move. “You know Finite doesn’t work on items with permanent embedded charmwork.”

“Well, it is permanent embedded, _defective_ charmwork,” Ron pointed out. “What are the chances that I can cast Engorgio at the leggings without it hitting your body? I don’t want you to blow up.”

Cormac raised an eyebrow. “I knew you always wanted an excuse to make me beefier. I’m not enough of a bear for you, am I? It’s alright, you can say it.”

“Oh my god, no,” Ron groaned. “If we enlarge the leggings, we might be able to get them off, is all I’m saying.” Ron lifted his wand. “ _Engorgio. Evanesco. Exsolvo. Inlubrico. Irvesti. Rursus Appareo._ ” Nothing.

Cormac slapped his thigh enthusiastically. “These things are a fucking miracle! They don’t let anything through!”

“What happens if you have to piss?” Ron asked, his mouth falling open in horror. “We’re going to have to cut them off.”

“No!” Cormac gasped. “No. They cost...no. We’re not cutting them.”

“More or less than a hundred Galleons?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cormac said. “Anyway, I think they’re charmed not to rip, so scissors and Severing Charms probably won’t work.”

“Fuck.” Ron looked at the clock on the wall, which said “It’s beer o’clock!” “We’re supposed to be getting dressed.”

“I know!” Cormac said. “I was just getting in a quick HIIT session before the party.”

“Okay,” Ron said, thinking. “Okay. We’re going to have to Floo the company’s Customer Service. Or we could try Hermione.”

“Let’s Floo the company,” Cormac agreed. “You know how I feel about the way Hermione disrespects my gear.”

***

Thirty minutes later—the company claiming that they would “research it,” and Hermione not at home—Ron was beside himself with anxiety.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Ron shouted; he could feel his face heating up. “We’re supposed to be putting on suits! We don’t have any dress robes and you know I refuse to wear them on principle! You can’t even go to the loo, and we’ll never have sex again!”

Cormac, who had pulled his top off at some point to get better access to the leggings’ waistband, walked over and grabbed Ron’s shoulders. “Bro, take a breath. Cool your pits. We won’t be late.”

Ron forced his agitated eyes to Cormac’s face. Cormac was looking right at him, concerned, and Ron tried to focus on a red mark on his cheek where Cormac must’ve gone overboard with his Depilatory Charm again. Cormac smiled—a goofy, lopsided smile that looked perfect on his tan skin—and Ron felt the anxiety in his chest ease. 

“Do we need to meditate?” Cormac asked, and one bright side of the leggings fiasco was that he looked primed to pop into lotus position.

“No, we don’t have time,” Ron said. “No, I’ll be okay.” Ron surveyed Cormac, trying not to get distracted by his brick-shithouse bod. The leggings and bare top left nothing (except the junk, which was safely encased in magical space) to the imagination. Ron forced himself to stay on task. “Let me try to pull them off from the ankles.”

“Do you think it’s going to make a difference?” Cormac asked, crossing his muscled arms across his chest.

“No,” Ron said, but gestured for Cormac to sit. 

Cormac lay back on the sofa and stuck his legs in the air at a 45 degree angle. “Might as well get in a little core work,” he said, lifting his head and shoulders off the sofa.

Ron looked at Cormac’s tense muscles. “You’re going to hold the leggings on with your arse muscles!”

“Just yank ‘em,” Cormac said, pulsing forward and breathing deliberately.

Ron grabbed Cormac’s floating feet.

“Don’t hold them up!”

“Cor, the core work is not the priority here.” Ron grasped the material, but it was suctioned tight to Cormac’s ankles. Ron pinched the material and pulled with all his might, and Cormac flew backward, core workout abandoned, to lay firm as a plank, legs out straight.

“Are they coming off?” he asked, as Ron shook him by the ankles and his head and torso jiggled off the sofa.

“No!” Ron said. He waited for Cormac to set his head down on the floor and then dropped his ankles. “Fuck.”

Cormac sat up. “They’re not coming off, are they?”

“Alright,” Ron said. “Okay. Let’s just put the suit trousers on over the leggings.”

“Sick plan,” Cormac said, hopping up and following Ron into their bedroom.

Ron immediately started ripping off his robes and clothes, throwing them haphazardly to the floor. They definitely did not have time to dawdle. Ron threw open the wardrobe and pulled Cormac’s navy trousers from the hanger, holding them over his shoulder.

Cormac grabbed them. “People to avoid tonight. Three, two, one, go!” 

Ron smiled. He and Cormac were perfect social partners. Cormac always helped him navigate this sort of thing. Ron scrunched his nose, thinking about all the people he needed to avoid. “Theo. Don’t want to get into a fist fight again.” He turned to look at Cormac.

Cormac held up one finger. “That’s one,” he said, stepping into his trousers, but, inexplicably, the trousers shot off his foot at high speed and hit the far wall.

“What the fuck?!” Ron cried, looking between Cormac’s leg and the trousers where they lay in a heap on the floor. 

“Oh fuck,” Cormac said, and started to laugh uncontrollably. “Fuck, bro. I think the leggings have an Imperturbable Charm.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!”

“You know, um, prevents an object from approaching the magical barrier.”

Ron stared. “Let me get this straight. Your leggings, which definitely blew our budget, are stuck on you and are also preventing you from putting anything on top of them.”

Cormac shrugged. “It’d be a good feature if balls were flying at me or something.”

Ron raised his eyebrows.

“Not that balls are ever flying at me. I’m a one-man guy.”

“Who the fuck puts an Imperturbable on leggings?!” Ron screeched.

“It’d make them soundproof, too,” Cormac mused, looking down at his crotch.

***

“Fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell,” Ron chanted, walking through the corridor from the Floo to the ballroom.

“Don’t worry,” Cormac said, surprisingly blasé for a man who was walking through Malfoy Manor wearing a pair of pink-and-black leggings with a waistcoat and dinner jacket. “Everything will be just fine.”

“It really won’t,” Ron said, taking a deep breath.

Harry had relayed some of the conflicts they’d had in planning this event. One major row had been the dress code: Harry had insisted on allowing people to wear Muggle formalwear. “It is non-negotiable,” Harry had declared, and he’d won, because he was Harry Potter and everyone listened when Harry put his foot down. But knowing that even Muggle formalwear had been a stretch, Ron was sweating, anxiety pouring out of him and forming pit stains on his crisp white dress shirt. 

They rounded the corner into the ballroom and came face to face with Lucius Malfoy in full dress robes, the material sparkling with fairy thread that Ron vaguely knew cost more than gemstones. Lucius’s cold eyes fell to Cormac’s leggings. His mouth gaped, and he seemed unable to look away from Cormac’s muscled, lycra-clad legs.

“Thanks for the invite, Mr M,” Cormac said, sticking his hand out.

Lucius’s hand rose limply to shake Cormac’s with two tentative fingers. His face dripped with disapproval. “It is our pleasure to have you here on this auspicious occasion.”

“It’s fab that Hazza and Drazza are getting hitched,” Cormac said, flashing a brilliant smile. “They’re a top-notch couple.”

Lucius bodily turned away from Cormac and fixed his wrathful eyes on Ron, as if Ron was the cause of his pain, which, Ron supposed, he was. “Harry tells us it is customary for the best man to make a speech at engagement parties.” Lucius seemed to be doing his best to ignore Cormac, which was, Ron thought, probably for the best.

“Er, yes—” Ron began.

“Best people,” Cormac interrupted, throwing his arm around Ron’s shoulders. “Harry’s calling them ‘best people,’ not ‘best man,’ because Ron and Hermizzle are his best people.”

Lucius closed his eyes and inhaled slowly though his nose. When he opened his eyes, he wore a vacant expression, like he wasn’t properly focussing on anything. “You’ll deliver a speech after dinner, then, Mr Weasley?”

“Yes, sir. Er, thanks,” Ron said quickly, grabbing Cormac’s arm and pulling him into the ballroom and away from Lucius bloody Malfoy. A dignified crowd stood milling about, chatting. Some couples were performing sedate dances on the dancefloor next to a string quartet.

“I see my Uncle Tiberius,” Cormac said. “You want to go say hi?”

“I’m going to go find Harry,” Ron said, scanning the crowd. “You go, I’ll find you in a few.”

“Excellent,” Cormac said, slapping Ron on the back.

There was a large crowd of people at the far end of the room, so Ron figured that must be where Harry and Draco were. He made his way over, grabbing a glass of champagne from a floating tray on the way and chugging it in one long sip. He was pretty sure there was some sort of liqueur in the champagne, but he drank it so quickly he wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

Hermione ran up to him. She wore a pretty deep purple Muggle dress that looked to be made of silk. “You’re late!” she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and kissing his cheek.

“There was a leggings incident.”

Hermione raised a brow. “A leggings...incident?”

“You’ll see,” Ron said. “Where’s Harry?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder. “Greeting the dignitaries with Draco. I can’t decide if we should bring him a drink or make sure he doesn’t get drunk.”

Ron laughed, rising on tiptoes to try to see what was happening. Harry and Draco stood together, smiling blandly at a crowd of older guests. Harry wore a Muggle suit with a jacket that was cut slightly like a robe and Draco wore a matching pair of traditional robes that were cut slightly like a suit jacket. Symbolism, Draco had said when he hired a fashion designer to make them. They looked good. “I guess we ought to just let him get it over with,” Ron said.

“True,” Hermione said. “Then we can help him have fun.”

A whooping shout sounded from the direction of the dance floor. Hermione craned her neck to look, but Ron closed his eyes. He knew that whoop.

“What’s he doing?” Ron asked, wincing.

Hermione broke into a wide grin, grabbing Ron’s wrist and dragging him towards the dancefloor. 

Ron couldn’t help himself laughing.

Cormac was in the middle of the dancefloor, vogueing. The string quartet was enjoying it, jamming on their instruments and playing—was that Uptown Funk? Cormac spun around and began breakdancing. The leggings gleamed in the lights, allowing a full range of motion that was rarely seen at formal events.

“Sweet Merlin,” Ron whispered through giggles.

“What is he wearing?” Hermione gasped through her laughter.

“He’s stuck in a pair of bloody magical leggings,” Ron said. “And there’s something wrong with the charmwork.”

Hermione bent over at the waist, laughing harder. “He can’t get them off? Did you read the manual?”

“Mione, it’s a pair of leggings. They didn’t come with a manual.”

“I can try to Transfigure them,” Hermione said, her laughter waning as her problem-solving nature took over.

“Yes, please try. But not right now,” Ron said, looking at the scene on the dance floor. “He seems to be relying on the functionality of the leggings right now.”

“Ron!” Cormac shouted when their eyes met, and he ran over to pull Ron onto the dancefloor.

“You’re insane!” Ron hissed, laughing, as Cormac dropped into a lunge, then sprung up with a clap of his hands and landed in a lunge on the other leg.

“Good thing I wore these leggings, eh?” Cormac asked with a smile, dropping into a split without getting anywhere near the ground. 

Ron laughed, bopping to the music while just slightly bending his knees. The crowd, which had been in a circle while Cormac was breakdancing, started to fill in the space around them. One group of teenagers that Ron didn’t recognise shouted “I’m too hot (hot damn)!” in time with the music, which managed to be fairly upbeat despite the instruments.

As Cormac threw him into a spin, Ron saw Narcissa walking quickly towards the string quartet, a murderous look on her face. In less than a minute, the music switched back to a sedate wizarding waltz.

“That was fun, bro,” Cormac said, leaning in to kiss Ron. “These leggings aren’t meant for a waltz, though. Let’s go see if they have beer.”

As the walked in the direction of the bar, they ran directly into Ron’s parents.

“Mama W! Papa W!” Cormac enthused, wrapping Ron’s mum in a hug and swaying back and forth with his head resting atop hers. “If it isn’t my favourite milf!”

Ron winced. Cormac was proving unteachable with regard to the proper usage of “milf.” 

“Hey Dad,” Ron said as Arthur reached forward to hug him.

“You two were putting on quite a show,” Molly said, leaning back with her hand on her hip and a smile on her face. 

“Tell me about these trousers,” Arthur said, rubbing his hands together. “Are they some new Muggle fashion?”

“I _wish_ they were Muggle leggings,” Ron said. “He’s stuck in them. They’ve got defective charms or something.”

Molly frowned while Arthur’s eyes lit up at the mention of rogue charmwork. Molly’s wand was out before Ron knew what was happening, and she shot a series of nonverbal charms at Cormac’s lower half. Oh, thank goodness; if anyone could figure it out, it was his mum.

“Are you ready for your speech, son?” Arthur asked while watching his wife charm his son’s boyfriend’s faulty leggings.

“Hermione and I have it all planned,” Ron answered. “She’s had us practicing five times this past week.”

Molly’s frown grew as her charms became fewer and farther between. “By Helga,” she muttered. “I’ve never seen trousers like this in all my years. Not even during the No-Roll Hosiery charm debacle of the sixties.”

Ron’s heart dropped. He had really assumed his mum would solve it.

He winced as he saw Narcissa walking towards them. 

“Mr Weasley,” Narcissa said, “you’re needed for the speeches.”

Cormac grinned, slapping his hands on his pink-and-black-legginged thighs. “Sweet! It’s showtime!”

***

Narcissa led Ron to Harry and Draco. Ron smiled upon seeing them. Draco was telling some sort of embellished story, throwing his arm into the air for emphasis, and Harry clutched his stomach as he laughed in response. They looked happy, like they were having fun, despite being at an engagement party in Malfoy Manor filled with boring people.

“I’ve found your best man,” Narcissa said, pushing Ron towards the happy couple with a hand on his back.

Harry smiled. “Ron!” He tugged Ron into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“We just saw each other two days ago,” Ron answered with a grin, smiling at Hermione over Harry’s shoulder.

Draco smirked. “Harry’s been drinking goblin gin and it’s making him maudlin.” His eyes strayed to Cormac. “What in the bloody fuck are you wearing, McLaggen?”

Ron sighed, but Cormac just shrugged and said, “You know how it is, Drazza. Sometimes you just get stuck in a pair of bewitched leggings.”

Draco raised one eyebrow. “I cannot say I’ve ever experienced this plight.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “You’re _stuck_ in those leggings?”

“We’ve tried everything,” Ron said. “My mum has tried everything. We Flooed the company.”

“It’s quite a look,” Draco said, amused, waving his hand at Cormac. “What with the formal top and the...bendy bottom.”

Cormac guffawed. “It’s true I’m a bendy bottom, bro, so I guess it’s all okay. Truth in advertising and all of that. Though I’m not sure I’m formal when I top. What do you think, Ron?”

Draco’s face contorted into a grimace and he turned away to talk to Pansy and Blaise (his best people).

As Narcissa cast a Sonorus charm and began to thank the guests for attending, Ron whispered to Harry. “I’m so sorry, mate. I know the dress code was a point of contention and I promise Cormac was not trying to flout it.”

Harry smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Did Lucius see?”

“Oh, he saw. Bastard almost had a heart attack.”

Ron could feel the vibrations of Harry’s laughter from where their arms touched, and smiled. At least he could bring Harry joy on his special day.

“Did you try Vanishing them?” Harry whispered, as Pansy and Blaise took their positions to toast Harry and Draco.

“Yes,” Ron said. “They’re impenetrable. They’re like a leggings fortress. He hasn’t been able to use the loo in hours.”

Cormac leaned over. “I’ve got a bladder of steel, bros; don’t you worry about me.”

Pansy was recounting her and Draco’s childhood antics in some detail, which all of the old folk in the room seemed to find charming, but which Ron—and Harry, he was certain—found horribly boring. Draco was fine _now_ , sure, but Ron had no desire to glorify that prat’s gitty childhood.

“What if you try…” Harry said, frowning at Cormac’s arse, for Cormac was turned away from them listening to Pansy.

“Draco was a child,” Pansy intoned with smugness in her voice, “who knew exactly how to get what he wanted. I’m reminded of a particular Sneakoscope…”

Before Ron knew what was happening, he felt Harry’s magic whiz past him and watched as it made contact with Cormac’s stretchy slacks—and the leggings, along with Cormac’s last shred of modesty, Vanished. Cormac stood at the front of the ballroom—where every pair of eyes in the room was turned to listen to Pansy and watch the happy couple—dressed to the nines on the top half, but with hairy, muscled legs and naked arse on display on the bottom.

“Merciful heavens!” an unidentified woman’s voice bawled.

Cormac’s first reaction to being suddenly nude-arsed in front of a ballroom full of people, including the Minister for Magic and his boyfriend’s entire extended family, was to holler at Harry, “You did it!”

Ron snapped out of his momentary stupor and jumped bodily in front of Cormac, holding his arms out to either side as if the air to the left and right of Cormac’s torso was in need of concealment.

“This,” Lucius drawled angrily, spinning to face Draco and seeming to forget that he was in front of a hundred of magical Britain’s most important people, “is why civilised wizards wear _robes_.”

Ron’s heart was pounding at the speed of the new Nimbus Aviates and he winced as he felt Cormac peek over his shoulder to announce amiably to the crowd, “This is why you never miss a leg day, lads.”

“Cormac,” Ron hissed. “Apparate home. _Now!_ ”

A _Pop!_ and a gust of air, and Cormac (and his exposed bits) were gone.

Silence hung heavy in the ballroom.

Arthur Weasley, with the aplomb that can only come from being simultaneously a parent of seven and a lover of dodgy charms, stepped in front of Lucius (whose face had drained of all blood and who appeared to remain upright only by the stabilising power of the stick up his arse), clapped his hands together, and announced with a laugh, “Happens to the best of us. I believe Blaise Zabini is next?”

***

After the speeches ended, the arrival of food thankfully drew the crowd’s attention away from Ron. 

Ron rounded on on Harry. “What the fuck?! You just debagged Cormac in front of a million people!” He wasn’t angry though, really. He was, a bit, but he was also relieved and incredulously amused.

“Not a million,” Draco corrected. “Two hundred forty-nine was the final count. But yes, Harry, explain.”

Harry’s mouth was open, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “You said—you said he couldn’t get his leggings off, and that you’d tried everything, and I didn’t really expect it to work, but I just—”

“What spell did you use?” Hermione asked, with a look on her face that suggested she wished she had a notebook and quill.

Harry’s eyes trailed sketchily towards Draco and then snapped back to Ron and Hermione. “Er. Well.”

Draco looked right pleased with himself. Even more pleased than usual, which was saying something.

“It may have been a not-quite-legal spell for Vanishing clothing,” Harry said, and coughed inoperatively into his fist.

“A ‘not-quite-legal’ spell for Vanishing clothing,” Hermione repeated. 

Ron began to laugh. “Why do you know that?!”

Harry raised his hands in defense. “Draco taught it to me!”

Draco sighed, reaching an arm around Harry’s waist as he deigned to provide an explanation. “It’s a Victorian spell that was popularised by Bartram Hille in a risque novel. Because of the mores of the age, it was classified as Dark Magic and categorised as illicit. Yada yada, inefficient bureaucracy, politics prejudiced against anything labelled Dark, it’s still technically illegal.”

“A Dark disrobing spell?” Ron asked.

“Did you just say ‘yada yada’?” Hermione asked.

“Where the hell did you learn it?” Ron, heaving a disbelieving chuckle, asked Draco.

“Oh, come on, Weasel. Are Gryffindors really so dumb and unimaginative? It was sexy and rebellious—obviously it was the most common spell in the Slytherin dormitory by year five.”

Just then, Cormac sauntered through the entrance to the ballroom, legs fully hidden behind a layer of gabardine. When Ron locked eyes with him across the room, Cormac stopped, struck a pose, and flashed a brilliant smile. 

Completely uninterested in the discussion occuring behind him about out-of-date legal classifications of Dark Magic, Ron walked quickly across the room to Cormac.

“You’re back,” Ron said with a grin. “And you meet the dress code.”

“I wouldn’t leave you hanging,” Cormac said. “And also, I picked something up while I was home.”

“What?” Ron asked, as Cormac grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the dancefloor.

Cormac slapped the bassist on the back. “Take five, bro.” Cormac looked at Ron, dragging his eyes up Ron’s formalwear in an undisguised once-over before he turned back to the musicians. “Actually, make it ten.” 

Ron’s face crinked with confusion, not following what Cormac was up to. But that was half the fun of Cormac, wasn’t it? You never knew what you’d be doing next, and whatever it was, it would never be boring.

Cormac pulled an iSonorus out of his jacket pocket. 

“Oh Merlin,” Ron whispered, his face creased in a smile. “What music did you bring?”

“Don’t worry, babe. It’s on theme.”

Cormac tapped the amplification system with his wand and a booming sound filled the ballroom. Two hundred forty-seven faces turned to look at them.

_Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt._

Cormac jumped into the middle of the dancefloor, both arms held up in flexing position as he lateral squat walked across the floor.

Before Ron could think through the consequences of his actions, he inverted into a handstand and hand-walked to join his ridiculous lover, where he jumped back into an upright position.

_I like big butts and I cannot lie. You other brothers can't deny._

Suddenly Draco and Harry were there too, Draco’s posh voice shouting, “YOU GET SPRUNG!” as Harry (being the one in Muggle clothes and therefore the one with a reasonable range of motion) climbed onto Draco’s shoulders and began to punch the air while Draco boogied them in circles around Cormac. 

Blaise and Pansy, if Ron wasn’t mistaken, were dancing a Backstreet Boys routine.

Lucius Malfoy—palpably vibrating with rage—stood nearby, wand held high, appearing to raise wards around the dancefloor. Or maybe it wasn’t wards. Maybe he was making an Imperturbable barrier, Ron mused, which, like Cormac’s leggings, would create a soundproof layer between indecency and the decorous guests.

Ron grabbed Cormac’s arse, threw back his head, and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [Tumblr](https://aibidil.tumblr.com)!


End file.
